The Voyeurs
by sillythings
Summary: Lestrade and John, Stamford and the others see something they never expected to see.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: This is dumb. I know. But I like voyeuristic fics where everyone is watching Molly and Sherlock, playing the "will they, won't they," game. Don't ask me how the technology for this would work. Let's assume it could happen **____**. As always, constructive criticism is gladly accepted.**_

"Really, he just couldn't be bothered? This is at least an 8!" protested Greg Lestrade, waving his hand at the bulletin board behind him, strewn with photographs, a map, receipts and other bits and pieces of evidence for the current case that was causing him grief. Good thing he didn't need to worry about his hair going gray given the stress of the case and the belligerence of one Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he'd start pulling his hair out next…that would be too bad. The silver fox thing was really working for him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, while John set up the laptop so they could conference call with Sherlock who sat in the comfort of 221b, wrapped in a plaid dressing gown, slumped on the sofa with a mug of tea on his belly. The laptop was positioned on the coffee table and John and Lestrade had a lovely view of Sherlock's knees in his striped pajama pants.

"I've looked at the evidence, and your suspect is not the murderer," sighed Sherlock, disdain clearly writ on his face even through the computer monitor

"But she was there! Her fingerprints are…" Lestrade began to protest.

Sherlock lifted a dismissive hand, "Inconclusive. Until you can bring in the brother for questioning, this investigation is at a stand still" and with that he pressed a button, ending the call—or at least he thought so. He set his mug on the table next to the computer and flopped down again, head tilted back staring at the ceiling.

"It's still on-he's done the thing again—Sherlock!" John put his face close to the screen and waved frantically. "It's still on! He's muted us. Brilliant, brilliant idiot. This bit of modern technology seems to have not been worth retaining, apparently. Sherlock-whoo-hoo—" he waved his hand a moment more before dropping his hand, "no use. Might as well disconnect."

Which is exactly what John Watson was going to do before a new person moved into sight on the screen. Miss Molly Hooper, recently confirmed conspirator in the faked death of Mr. Sherlock Holmes sank heavily onto the sofa next to Sherlock, weighed down by two large binders, apparently filled with medical charts. She handed one to Sherlock with a small smile and said something that unfortunately could not be picked up by the muted speakers. She gestured to the laptop, but Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head before petulantly flipping open the binder.

John was going to stop the transmission. He was. But Lestrade laid a restraining hand on his arm.  
"So, how long has that been going on then?" gesturing to Molly where she now sat curled in the corner of the sofa, heavy binder open—she was studying something intently with her lips pursed. She was wearing her glasses—unusual—and they had slipped down to the end of her upturned nose. For a moment, she and Sherlock sat in identical poses, heads bent, pursuing the files.

"What's that?" John asked.

Greg pointed to Molly, "Our pathologist, at 221B, with Sherlock? In his jammies. A little bit cozy, no?"

John grinned, "Well, you help someone fake his death, you're bound to get a little closer." He glanced at the pair revealed on the screen, sitting together but not touching, intent on whatever they were reading. "I wouldn't say there's romance in the air—how could there be with Sherlock? But I think they are friends—real friends, at least."

Greg grinned, "Yeah? Good for Molly. He's a prat, but she cares about him. It's about time he showed her a little respect if nothing else."

"I'm not living there, obviously, but I think she comes around now and then—doing what you see them doing now—working on experiments, helping him with evidence." John recalled Mrs. Hudson's recent horror of finding Sherlock had borrowed her cutting board to dissect a few spare body parts. Molly was happily directing the activity and had received as sound a scolding as Sherlock. Molly had been mortified. Sherlock unrepentant.

"But you're sure nothing else going on?" Greg asked. John pointed to the screen which now showed Molly leaning further away from Sherlock, holding a page up to the light to see better.

"Molly's a sweetheart, but not really Sherlock's type, you know?" John shook his head at some memory, an uneasy look on his face. Greg looked at John closely.

"Does he even have a type?" the detective inspector seemed genuinely curious.

John paused, opened his mouth. Closed it, and then began again, "Well, you know, the type to wear black lace, use riding crops, sell incriminating evidence to the highest bidder, you know who I'm talking about."

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah. I saw her website. Kind of cliché—a bit boring, I'd think for Sherlock. Besides, Molly's helped Sherlock whip a few bodies with the crop; she's committed at least one act of fraud for him, even if Mycroft did hush it up, and if I remember correctly, Molly was wearing a black lace bra at Christmas."

"You remember that? And you a married man," tsked John with a smile. "Still, there really isn't the same glamour about Molly when you compare her to The Woman. Sherlock likes drama, craves it, whether he wants to admit it or not. Molly does not bring the drama."

"Maybe," Lestrade looked unconvinced, "though I think Sherlock enjoys his own drama more than anyone else's. Besides, Sherlock is still a man, and Molly's arse is definitely as good as The Woman's, maybe even better."

John stared at Lestrade for a moment, "How could you even kn—"

"I've been to the Whip Hand's website. Her arse and everything else was on display." Greg waggled his eyebrows suggestively, "That's how I know."

John shook his head, "No, but you've seen Molly's arse?" He looked a trifle scandalized. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the romantic sort. Maybe Molly wasn't his type. But every male in their social group knew that Molly belonged to Sherlock—in whatever primal way he had claimed her. Even John, at least until he'd finally found his Mary, who dated a steady string of women, who would admit to finding Molly attractive, steered clear of her. How had Lestrade dared to see Molly naked? It only could have happened while Lestrade believed Sherlock dead. He would not have dared otherwise.

So it was to John's relief when Lestrade replied, "No more than you at Christmas, but under that black dress? That's a nice arse. And I bet Molly doesn't need 10 virgins massaging it with goat milk daily or whatever that dominatrix did to make it look good."

John continued to stare at Lestrade.

"What? Like you weren't looking." Lestrade said knowingly.

"I am a married man. I am not having a conversation about Molly Hooper's arse." John shook his head and focused on the computer screen again.

"Ah, you did notice then," grinned Lestrade.

John rather significantly did not answer. He stayed focused on the screen looking at Molly lick her finger to turn the page, and studiously tried to NOT think about her arse, when suddenly Sherlock flung the binder down, gave a heavy (though inaudible to John and Lestrade) sigh, and turned his head suddenly to stare at Molly. She did not look up. She was used to his theatrics.

Sherlock reached over, arm on the back of the sofa, to brush Molly's shoulder with one finger. She still didn't look up, intent on her reading.

Sherlock prodded her shoulder again. He was not gentle.

Molly looked up in annoyance, her glasses nearly falling off, when suddenly, with a swirl of his dressing gown, Sherlock pounced at her.

John and Lestrade caught a glimpse of Molly's surprised face, saw her binder slip to the floor, and Sherlock pulling her glasses off before all they could see was the back of Sherlock's curly head and the drape of his plaid robe as he wrapped his arms around the small woman and snogged her feverishly.

John and Greg stood with mouths agape as Molly's arms struggled to free themselves and wrapped themselves around the consulting detective's shoulders before one hand travelled up to bury itself in his hair. Molly's face appeared again as Sherlock began to nibble her neck, her eyes closed and mouth slightly open, panting as the assault on her neck continued.

"My God!" Lestrade finally uttered, "What—they are—" he looked at John, who made to slam the laptop shut.

"This is wrong—no, we cannot—" John started when Lestrade put out a hand to stop him.

"Don't you dare!" Lestrade tussled with John a moment, who honestly did not put up much of a fight. By the time they were settled again, Sherlock had apparently pulled Molly onto his lap, where she straddled him, back to the computer camera, and he was currently divesting her of her mustard yellow jumper. The back and straps of her black lace bra were revealed to John and Lestrade's guilty eyes, and Sherlock's long-fingered hands began to stroke her back, dipping into the waistband of her trousers to reach the region Lestrade had recently admired. The motion of Molly's head indicated that she was kissing him senseless the whole while. Sherlock's clever hands were just beginning to fumble with the clasp on Molly's bra when Donovan knocked heavily on the door of Lestrade's office. She didn't wait for a response and burst in excitedly, "Sir! Sir—we've got the brother in—I think we've—" she paused taking in the red face of John and the guilty look the detective inspector wore. John slammed the laptop shut.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, her brow furrowed, and she eyed John warily.

"Nothing!" shouted Lestrade, "I mean, -er" he cleared his throat, "yeah, no, everything's fine here Sergeant. And how are you?" He began to shuffle and stack up some loose papers on his desk.

"I'm fine, Sir," replied Donovan, eyeing him suspiciously, "but we've brought the brother of the suspect in."

"Ah! Yes, well, thank you very much, Donovan. Be there in just a moment—care to join me, John?"

John looked up guiltily from where he was trying to quietly lift the laptop screen, "What? Oh, uh…"

"Might be useful to get the info for Sherlock. He did want the brother questioned." Lestrade said pointedly. John nodded, a bit vacant for a moment, before answering—

"Right! Right, of course. Right away." With one last look thrown at the laptop, John followed Donovan and Lestrade out the door.

An hour later, the doctor and the detective inspector burst into Lestrade's office, and while Lestrade closed the blinds, John opened the laptop and found Sherlock's irritated face staring at him—a rather unflattering angle that made him all nose for moment, before he pulled back. His hair was standing on end, but he looked otherwise unruffled.

"Where have you been?" snapped Sherlock, "I'm not going to wait around all day. Have you apprehended the brother or not?" John noticed Molly behind Sherlock, back in her corner of the sofa, again flipping through the large white binder. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth except for the fact that her yellow jumper was now worn backwards and inside out. The tag fluttered just under her chin.

Lestrade looked disappointed, but he answered with enthusiasm, "Yeah, yeah, we've got him. Would you like to come down and talk to him yourself?"

Sherlock paused for a moment, unconsciously flicking a glance to the side, toward Molly, when his face became disdainful, "Really, Lestrade, you cannot handle the questioning by yourself? Sorry! I have far too much to do to leave the flat for anything less than a 9." Molly didn't look up, but her lips curved up into a little smile before Sherlock closed the screen with a snap.

The transmission ended. Lestrade and John looked at each other a moment, guilt in their eyes, before Lestrade spoke quietly, "I _told_ you she wore black lace."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: I like Mike Stamford. That is all.**_

Sherlock Holmes was back, and the good natured Mike Stamford could not be happier about that development. Not only was Sherlock back home on Baker Street, he was also back at St. Bart's, his home away from home. Sherlock came to see Stamford in his office, early in the day, to rather haltingly explain himself—to clarify why he decided to take a nosedive off of the roof, send Stamford's oldest friend into a depressive spin and implicate his head pathologist in a fraudulent act, when Stamford interrupted Sherlock's halting explanation by drawing him into an enormous hug, squeezing the wide-eyed detective breathless before clapping him on the back. He stared Sherlock straight in the eye with a steady smile and said, "No explaining needed between friends, eh?" Sherlock straightened up and after looking at Stamford searchingly for a moment, he nodded, turned and strode out of Stamford's office with all the drama he'd had before and then some. Stamford grinned. Being "dead" really hadn't changed him at all, now, had it?

All felt right in the world, when after lunch, Stamford passed by the morgue, and glancing in, he saw that Molly had just unzipped a body for Sherlock to examine. She was bent over the corpse, purple latex gloves on, a pair of tweezers in her hands as she attempted to retrieve something from the cadaver's left nostril. Sherlock cut a familiar but intimidating figure, black clad, coat collar turned up as he hovered behind the petite woman. Sherlock was removing his own gloves, presumably in favor of the extra pair of latex ones on the examining table, when one hand dropped out of sight behind the table, behind Molly. Molly suddenly gave a yelp, muffled from where Stamford stood, and dropped the tweezers with a clatter. She turned furiously on Sherlock who looked down at her with an unabashed expression. Stamford stared for a moment, trying to understand what he had just seen_. Sherlock Holmes had goosed Molly Hooper_. That couldn't be right, could it? Molly's mouth was working—she was telling the smirking man something very sternly and pointing to the opposite side of the examining table. _Sherlock Holmes had grabbed Molly Hooper's bum_—Stamford's eyes told him this information, but his brain could not quite process it. Down in the morgue, Sherlock pushed out his bottom lip at Molly, but she continued to point to the opposite side of the table. Turning irritably with a swish of his coat, Sherlock moved to the other side and the examination continued. Stamford paused a moment more before shaking himself and moving on—there had to be a logical explanation—it couldn't have been what it looked like. He'd bring it up to John the next time they got together.

It was late when Mike Stamford stopped in the hallway outside of the lab, pausing before heading to his office where an unwelcome pile of paper work awaited him. His wife would be irate—looked like he'd be missing his exercise class tonight—too bad, he thought to himself delightedly. It almost made the paperwork bearable when he considered what he would be missing.

The light in the lab was still on—Molly was working late again, or Sherlock was, with Molly assisting. Feeling a bit like a peeping Tom, Mike glanced through the window into the lab and smiled to see Sherlock back at his usual post, prepping something in a petri dish before moving over to stare into his favorite microscope. Sherlock was again where he belonged. He was a bloody marvel—back from the dead, a real hero. And if the woman in the white coat and the ponytail standing next to him with a pipette in her hand had something to do with his "death" and return—well, what was it to Stamford? Mycroft let him know when to look the other way, and Stamford had a blind eye turned to most of what Molly did in regards to Sherlock Holmes. She was a consummate professional in every other way. It was good to have everything back to normal.

Still lost in his thoughts, and delaying the inevitable paperwork, Stamford stood in the shadows, idly and happily watching the familiar scene play out before him when something happened that was decidedly unfamiliar to Stamford's wondering eyes.

Sherlock sat back with a triumphant smile and gestured to the microscope. Molly leaned over, quite close the consulting detective, to take a look herself, and as she was gazing into the microscope, Sherlock looked at her bent head quite intently. He inclined his head ever so slightly and when she raised her eyes from the microscope, Sherlock nuzzled her face—a proper nuzzle, eyes closed. He looked like he was breathing her in. Molly jerked up suddenly with a smile quirking her lips and faced Sherlock. She leaned in and rubbed her forehead and nose over his face in a playful Eskimo kiss before pecking him on the lips and returning to her pipette and slides. Sherlock grinned and bent over his microscope again.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, but Mike Stamford stood with a cooling cup of coffee in his numb hand, blinking rapidly. What had he just seen? It couldn't be what he thought he saw, because he just saw Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper in a … _romantic_ moment. But it couldn't be. Could it? He mentally replayed what he saw in the morgue earlier in the day, adding one and one together and coming up with two—those two in the lab, currently working side by side, not looking at each other or touching—those two were _together_. Together-together! Feeling like a gossipy old hen, he stood as long as he dared, peeking through the window but the display was not repeated. Molly and Sherlock working in the lab, same as it ever was.

Mike fumbled in his pocket for his phone, hurriedly punching in the numbers. He needed to talk to John right away. Disappearing body parts, fraudulent death certificates, Stamford could look the other way, but stolen kisses and surreptitious groping? No sir. Some things you just couldn't pretend to not see.


	3. Chapter 3

_**If you think Sherlock doesn't sing Schubert's lieder in the shower, well, you're wrong ;).**_

Martha Hudson was not a fool. She was also not a housekeeper, and yet here she was, taking a basket full of designer socks, pajama pants, and men's boxer briefs out of the dryer and settling down on her sofa to watch telly while she folded. Connie Prince's replacement really could not compare, but it was something to watch, to get her through the tedium of folding Sherlock's undies. She wasn't his housekeeper, but she loved the scoundrel, and if she acted like his housekeeper once in a while to keep him happy, what of it? They both knew the truth. Martha Hudson wasn't doing anything she didn't want to do.

But back to the point, Mrs. Hudson wasn't a fool, and when among the warm socks and t-shirts she encountered a little scrap of floral cotton, a dainty little pair of ladies bikini briefs scattered with roses, she was reasonably sure they were not for a new case Sherlock was working on. She knew they definitively were not her own, though twenty years ago she could have worn something like these. Nor did she have any reason to think that Sherlock had suddenly made a change in his underthings. Despite her initial suspicions about John and Sherlock's living arrangement, John's marriage had effectively put that speculation to rest for good—not that she labored under the delusion that John and Sherlock were a romantic couple for very long after having them under her roof. Besides, everyone knew that Sherlock didn't buy his own underwear. The personal shopper delivered a bag of new underpants, pajamas and the like—nearly always the same colors and brands- every few months or so—on Mycroft's orders, she assumed, as she was never aware of Sherlock shopping for anything other than a fireman's costume or a new set of specimen jars or a curved pirate's cutlass. Sometimes he bought beer for John if the good doctor was angry enough with him, but grocery shopping was different.

Mrs. Hudson held up the panties to the light and considered whether they could belong to one of John's old girlfriends—things did have an odd way of showing up in the wash long after you thought you'd lost them—tangled in the corner of a fitted sheet, scooped into the wash after being left in the corner of the closet. However, John had not lived in 221B in over a year, and even then, the last woman John had up to the flat tended to wear lacey thongs that peeked over the edge of her waistband (Mrs. Hudson had tried not to notice, but some things just drew the eye). Mrs. Hudson approved of these panties. Feminine, pretty, and practical. Not unlike a certain pathologist who was seen coming and going on Baker St. very frequently since Sherlock's recent return from the dead. She smiled as she folded the pants over her knee and gave them a little pat before placing them carefully on top of the basket of folded laundry. No, she wasn't a fool, but if Sherlock wanted to think he was fooling her, well, who was she to embarrass the poor boy with his first foray into love?

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson carefully made her way up the staircase to 221B carrying the basket of clothes. She attempted to knock, she really did, but she didn't want to set the load down only to pick it up again, so she gave the door a little push with the basket. The door was never locked. It couldn't be. Sherlock had shot the lock at some point, and no one had bothered to fix it yet.

"Hoo-Hoo!" she called out. There was no answer, yet she was positive Sherlock was home. She had heard him banging about not ten minutes before—thumps of furniture against the wall, scrapes of the chair on the floor, muffled exclamations. So she was puzzled by the empty flat until she heard the sound of the shower running. She smiled fondly at the thought of her boy, back home, doing normal things—it was a peaceful feeling though living with Sherlock was anything but. She carried the laundry through the kitchen and into his bedroom. She'd just put these few things away while he showered, and maybe after he'd be up for a cup of tea and a chat…

As she pushed open his bedroom door, she was rather surprised to see the state it was in. Pillows on the floor. The bed stripped of the covers which were in a heap at the foot of the bed. His clothes were strewn about. She shook her head. That was no way to treat his nice suits. She kicked the duvet out of the way and set about putting away Sherlock's clean garments before tackling the mess of clothes and sheets on the floor.

The shower was running steadily, and from behind the frosted glass of his bathroom door, she could hear him singing—oh, yes, Sherlock Holmes could sing. Did sing, in fact. Often in the shower. She smiled fondly to hear it. It was one of the Schubert lieder he liked, and she chuckled to hear him singing lustily in German _Roslein, Roslein, Roslein rot! Roslein auf der heiden! _Mrs. Hudson's eyes pricked with tears. It seemed too good to be true that he was home again.

Mrs. Hudson had just picked up the final article of clothing, about to leave the room in a much better state than she found it, when she heard another voice join Sherlock's—it was hesitant, tripping over the German, but sweet as she sang the part of the rose: "_Ich steche dich," _

Over the sound of the running water, "No wait… that it? _Dass du ewig dankst…" _

"_Denkst," _corrected Sherlock in a rumbling baritone, picking up the tune,_ "Dass du ewig denkst"_

The sweet, if uncertain, soprano of Molly Hooper joined him, and they sang together,_ "an mich,Und ich will's nicht leiden." _They drew out the final note high and sweet in some semblance of harmony before utterly losing it and beginning to giggle. Sherlock's deep, warm chuckle sounded and it was all laughter and the sound of water behind the glass door.

"I like that one," said Molly's voice, echoing off the tile, "Can you play it?"

"If you'd like." He answered. There was a pause, a sound of splashing. There was a clatter of a plastic bottle dropping and a soft, "ow!" before Sherlock's voice echoed again, "I like _this_. What can we do with this?"

There was a soft gasp and a giggle as Molly answered, "I can't think of anything new that we haven't already done with it."

"Nothing wrong with the standards," Sherlock's voice was low and deep, "and I am quite fond of routine in its place. It sets the rhythm, the steady pace that makes the unexpected all the more exciting. "

Molly's sweet laughter sounded again, "No, nothing wrong with the classics, I suppose."

And then there was silence and the sound of water.

Martha Hudson wasn't a fool. She wasn't a housekeeper. And she wasn't a busybody—sticking her nose where it didn't belong, but sometimes, you just had to play the role that the situation handed you. She hurried out of Sherlock's room, out of the flat as fast as her hip could take her. She had a call to make.

**Author's Note: Here is the song they were singing:**

Sah ein Knab' ein Röslein stehn,  
Röslein auf der Heiden,  
War so jung und morgenschön,  
Lief er schnell es nah zu sehn,  
Sah's mit vielen Freuden.  
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,  
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Knabe sprach: "Ich breche dich,  
Röslein auf der Heiden."  
Röslein sprach: "Ich steche dich,  
Dass du ewig denkst an mich,  
Und ich will's nicht leiden."  
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,  
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Und der wilde Knabe brach  
's Röslein auf der Heiden.  
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,  
Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,  
Musst es eben leiden.  
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,  
Röslein auf der Heiden.

Saw a boy a little rose,  
little red rose on the heath,  
young and lovely like the morning.  
So he ran to have a close  
look at it, and gladly did.  
Little rose, little rose,  
little red rose on the heath.

Said the boy: I will pick  
you, my red rose on the heath!  
Said the rose: I will prick  
you and I won't stand it,  
and you won't forget me.  
Little rose, little rose,  
little red rose on the heath.

And the rough boy picked the rose,  
little red rose on the heath,  
and the red rose fought and pricked,  
yet she cried and sighed in vain,  
and had to let it happen.  
Little rose, little rose,  
little red rose on the heath.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Author's Note: This is for SammyKatz who requested that Anderson meet with injury. I hope you approve!**_

Despite Sherlock Holmes' frequent declarations to the contrary, Anderson wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a particularly moral or nice man at times, but he wasn't an idiot. A respected forensics expert, he could usually read the evidence well enough, so long as there wasn't a brooding man with impossible cheekbones and a ridiculous name hanging over him and putting down his every speculation.

Yes, Anderson had a pretty good natural instinct when it came to reading a situation—he was part of the forensics team of Scotland Yard, after all. Even so, one bitterly cold evening, when Sherlock Holmes showed up to the crime scene with St Bart's pathologist in tow instead of John Watson, it didn't take a genius to know that something was off.

"Where's Watson?" Anderson asked, eyeballing the young woman who stood close by the consulting detective. She was bundled up against the cold in a warm quilted coat and a wooly knitted cap pulled low over her forehead. A matching cream-colored knitted scarf was wound several times around her neck—very cozy, she looked, despite her pink nose and cheeks. Anderson realized he knew her, had worked with her several times in fact, but only within the confines of the morgue. "What's Hooper doing here? She doesn't work the crime scenes."

"Brilliantly observing the obvious as usual, Anderson," huffed Sherlock, his breath making white clouds in the cold. His nose was already very red and his cheeks looked chapped. "Dr. Watson has made promise to his wife to never miss dinner on Thursdays. A charming, if inconvenient, kindness he, as a loyal husband is making to his beloved wife. Try not to look so baffled, Anderson, though I'm sure loyalty to one's spouse may be an unfamiliar concept." Holmes practically bit off the final two syllables. He was touchy today.

Anderson's face twisted. Back to the status quo, then. After Sherlock's return from the "dead" there had been something of a…_truce_ may be too strong a term, but a _cease-fire_, at least, between the two. They had avoided direct personal insults, and Sherlock had kindly avoided bringing up the fact that Anderson and Donovan had accused him of being a fraud and a serial killer. It looked like the war between the two had resumed, then.

"I think it's sweet," chimed in Dr. Hooper, "and a fair exchange for all the nights you keep him busy chasing criminals." She spoke pleasantly, but there was something accusatory in her tone. Sherlock didn't spare a glance at the pathologist as she spoke, he was focused on the murder victim on the ground before him, but something in his jaw twitched. Odd.

"We're pretty sure he's been poisoned, but we won't know for sure until the autopsy—" began Anderson, but Sherlock ignored him. Anderson glanced at Dr. Hooper who was already scanning the corpse with her eyes. She nodded when Anderson mentioned poisoning, her eyes fixing on the bloated, blackened tongue of the dead man.

Anderson and Sherlock bent over the victim. Anderson tried to speak, but Sherlock raised a warning hand, demanding silence as his eyes roved over the body, taking in every minute detail. His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly, processing the data when—

Anderson gave a long, audible sniff. "Do you smell something?" Sherlock's head jerked up in profound irritation and glared at the man next to him.

Sherlock looked pained. "Yes, Anderson. I smell the rank stink of desperation coming off of the assembled team. I smell the pong of stupidity wafting off—"

Anderson interrupted his string of insults irritably, "No, no, no. It's near here. It smells like…" he took a long sniff again, "strawberries…" He stared into Sherlock's angry blue eyes.

"If you are suggesting the odor of sanctity is emanating from the corpse, I can assure you that the victim is hardly a saint. His criminal associations are…" he was interrupted by another sniff from Anderson who leaned closer to the increasingly fidgety detective. Sherlock gave an irritable sigh.

"I know some poisons can have an odor of bitter almonds, but this is really strong," persisted Anderson. He leaned closer, "I think it's coming from—"

Sherlock shot to his feet, stepping away from the man. "And what have I told you about thinking, Anderson? It's far too cold out here to waste time with your insipid chatter," at this, he shivered and rubbed his hands together. That iconic coat wasn't as warm as it was stylish, it seemed.

Anderson sneered, "yes, yes, I know—I'll lower the IQ of the whole block—ha-ha. Should've worn your hat we bought you, Sherlock. " He grinned nastily, "It's got earflaps and everything to keep you toasty."

Sherlock glared back at Anderson, and subtly tried to stamp his feet. Those expensive leather shoes didn't do much against the icy street, either.

Sherlock shivered again, and said curtly, "I think we're through here. Dr. Hooper and I will wait here and accompany the body to the morgue—"

He didn't want Anderson waiting in the cold with the stiff? Fine by him. He had a jacket with a furry hood and he was still freezing. Let Sherlock freeze his arse off. See if he cared.

"Are you sure about that?" the woman chimed in looking concerned, "It's pretty cold out here, and the ambulance will take its time since it's not a call for a living victim. You look—"

"Yes, thank you, Molly. It's fine," snapped Sherlock. "The examination of the body must begin as soon as possible—why do you even think you're here? The longer we wait, the less chance we will find what we need to convict."

"Right," the pathologist replied tightly, "suit yourself." She adjusted her scarf and bent down to inspect the victim's tongue more closely. Sherlock opened his mouth, his eyes following her. He looked almost…contrite. Anderson's eyes swiveled between the two. If he didn't know better, this looked like a little domestic.

"Thank you for your help, Molly." He said stiffly.

"Mmm-hm," was the only reply.

"Let me just go clear you riding along. I'll be back in a moment." Smirking at Sherlock, Anderson turned to go back to the car. He'd have to cut through some tape to allow Sherlock to ride along in the ambulance, but Lestrade would handle it.

Several phone calls and a hot cup of coffee later, Anderson made his way slowly back to the pair standing behind the yellow police tape. The formalities were taken care of. He just needed to pack up and leave Sherlock and Hooper to it. Funny thing that he'd brought her along—

Anderson was still some distance away when he saw something that made him come to an abrupt stop and stand rigid in the cold air. The well bundled woman had Sherlock's gloved hands in her own and was chafing them briskly in her own. She dropped them suddenly to open up her thick coat, and taking his hands again, she placed his arms around her waist, underneath her warm coat and stepped forward to give him a big bear hug, made awkward due to the thickness of her jacket. Sherlock sank into her, hunching his shoulders against the cold and buried his face into her neck and wooly scarf. They swayed together, back and forth for a moment before the distant siren of the approaching ambulance—come to take the body away—caused them to reluctantly part.

What the hell had he just seen? Anderson's brow furrowed and he stepped closer. A rather friendly way of warming someone up. Who the hell would want to get that close to Sherlock Holmes? The closer you got, the more ammunition he had to insult you. Didn't she know that?

Dr. Hooper was looking down, refastening her coat, when Sherlock placed a gloved hand under her chin, and tilted her face up to his for a brief, soft kiss on her wind chapped lips. An apology. The wind shifted the sheet covering the dead man at their feet and caused an errant curl to fall over Sherlock's forehead. Dr. Hooper smiled and gently brushed it back.

It all happened within a minute or two, but to Anderson's horrified eyes, it was as if it were all happening in slow motion. Sherlock Holmes kissed a woman- a woman who kissed him back. A shudder ran down Anderson's spine—from cold or disgust, it was hard to tell.

Anderson began to move forward again, but he was in something of a daze, eyes fixed on the consulting detective and his pathologist, who were now standing a very professional distance away from each other, hands in pockets, eyes on the corpse. He didn't see the patch of ice.

Down Anderson went. Crack went his head on the cold cement. He lay stunned on the icy ground.

"Oh!" he heard a woman cry out through his fog of pain. Blinking his eyes open painfully, he saw the warm brown eyes of Molly Hooper staring down at him worriedly. "Are you okay? Just stay still. The paramedics are here for the body, but Sherlock's gone to bring them to you." Anderson groaned. "Shh. We'll get you taken care of." Molly bent over the injured man again, and a tendril of silky, brown hair fell over her shoulder and tickled his nose.

He twitched his nose. "Strawberries," he muttered.

The woman looked concerned. How hard had he hit his head?

"I'm sorry. What was that?" she asked kindly.

"You smell like strawberries," he said thickly.

Molly smiled. "It must be my new shampoo you're smelling. Nice, isn't it?"

"You smell like strawberries," he mumbled again.

"Yes, yes…" she patted his shoulder. Anderson's eyes widened with horror.

"So does Sherlock!" His detective training told him that could only mean one thing. But no. No!

Molly's eyes narrowed as she looked down on him. Anderson continued to stare at her with wide eyes, "Has he been _scrubbing your floors_?"

She heard the innuendo in his tone though she didn't understand it and pulled away hurriedly as the paramedics swooped in to shine a light into Anderson's eyes and check his vitals. "I think he hit his head hard," she murmured to Sherlock who had arrived with the paramedics and now stood beside her staring at Anderson with derision.

Suddenly Anderson smirked. He lifted a shaking hand to point at Sherlock. "Just look at the state of _your_ knees," his giggled, and then moaned and closed his eyes again.

Sherlock's eye twitched and Molly wrinkled her nose. "What did he mean by that?" she looked up at Sherlock curiously.

"I have no idea," lied Sherlock smoothly, before turning to the paramedics who were lifting Anderson onto a stretcher. "Do examine him carefully. I suspect a brain injury, but then again, with him, it would be rather difficult to tell. Come along, Molly."

He strode off into the night, his pathologist close behind. As Anderson was loaded into the ambulance, his thoughts painfully and disjointedly replayed the scene of Sherlock Holmes kissing Molly Hooper over a dead body in the street. Wait until he told Donovan. He closed his eyes, smelled strawberries, and tried really hard not to throw up.


	5. Chapter 5

Mary Morstan Watson was a very perceptive individual. Some might call it women's intuition, but that seemed a bit old-fashioned, didn't it? Call it what you will, it was part of the reason she got on so well with Sherlock Holmes. He had the same kind of perception times a billion, but he respected it in others, even if it were present in a lesser degree.

So, she had an idea something was up between Sherlock and Molly long before she actually saw anything definitive. Mary first met Molly when Sherlock was still officially "dead." During one of his many stories about Sherlock, John had mentioned that the gentle pathologist had had an unrequited crush on his difficult friend. Not long after this bit of information had been shared, they ran into her outside of St. Bart's—John was showing Mary where Sherlock had "died"—slowly coming to terms with it, slowly letting Mary help him heal from his sorrow. It was an emotional moment made even more so with the appearance of Molly on her way home, large canvas bag slung over her shoulder, head down. John called her over and introduced her to Mary. They stood together looking blankly at the spot where Sherlock had supposedly breathed his last. John's eyes were wet, and tears were trickling down Molly's nose.

"God, it's still so hard without him, isn't it Molly?" he mourned quietly. Molly's mouth twisted, and she gave a strangled little hiccough that sounded suspiciously like a sob as she nodded. Oddly, Mary didn't reach out to comfort John, but it was Molly to whom she extended her arms—a stranger to her. She hugged her warmly for a long moment before Molly gave a short, sharp laugh—a strange, bitter sound and pulled away, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve.

She gave Mary a weak smile, "It's good John has you. I'm so glad he's not alone." John looked up at Molly then. He took her hand and pulled her to him for a bone crushing embrace. He looked over Molly's shoulder to the blond woman watching over them.

"No, I couldn't have gotten along without my Mary," he said gruffly. He took Molly by the shoulders and looked into her face, "And how about you? How are you holding up?"

"Oh fine, fine! Work keeps me busy—It's a steady business. People are dying everyda-" she stopped herself suddenly, gave that strange, bitter laugh again, and waved her hand as if to erase what she just said. She fixed a smile on her face, took Mary's hand and said, "I'm so glad to have met you Mary. I hope I'll see you both again sometime soon?"

Looking into Molly's watery eyes, Mary was quick to recognize that Molly had had far more than a crush on the man, and that she was still grieving very strongly over Sherlock's absence. Mary had wondered at the time at the freshness of Molly's grief. Even John had begun to accept the loss. Molly was like an open wound. Looking back, the woman was probably terrified that Sherlock _was_ going to show up in her morgue, well and truly dead. She wasn't grieving his actual death, she was grieving a thousand potential deaths imagined in her mind.

"That poor woman," Mary had murmured to John as they watch Molly trudge down the street.

* * *

Some months later, Sherlock made his dramatic return. Mary planned a wedding. Got married. She didn't have much time or inclination to think about Sherlock Holmes and his connection to Molly Hooper. She had her own very happy life to think of for a while, but not long after she and John had returned from their honeymoon, she ran into Molly and Sherlock quite unexpectedly. Mary was stocking up on groceries—the fridge was empty since they had returned from their trip, and she, for one, couldn't live on love and take-away alone—though John seemed content to try.

She spotted Molly and Sherlock standing in the middle of the cereal aisle—Molly looked exasperated and Sherlock was petulant.

"I can't help it—" she was saying, "the course of antibiotics takes a full ten days, and the side effects—"

"I know! I know—" his distinctive voice carried down the aisle.

Mary waved broadly pushing her cart up to the pair. Sherlock looked startled and randomly grabbed a bright box of a fruit flavored cereal and threw it into Molly's basket.

"Oh! Hello, Mary" Molly smiled nervously, shuffling her feet in their laced up oxfords. As Mary drew near, Sherlock hurriedly added a box of instant oatmeal to the basket in Molly's arms. The brown haired woman moved the basket away slightly, adding in an undertone to the glowering man next her, "Don't. I still need to buy cat food. There won't be room-"

"Fancy seeing the two of you here!" laughed Mary. "Is there a breakfast bandit on the loose?" Mary came forward to kiss Molly's cheek.

"How was your honeymoon?" smiled Molly. Sherlock sighed and looked into the distance. He seemed suddenly intrigued by a display of olive oil.

"It was a dream. We'll have everyone over to show you the pictures. We even have souvenir for Sherlock, but you don't get it young man until you apologize to Molly." Mary suddenly found herself staring into a very intense pair of blue eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked simply. He didn't roll his eyes or snort. Few people were afforded this courtesy. Mary understood the honor being given to her.

"Don't try to act like you didn't follow Molly into the shops to pester her with your experiments. I'm sure she works hard enough for you while she's on the clock." She wagged a finger at Sherlock who looked blank for a moment and glanced at Molly. Molly shook her head slightly with a confused smile, "I don't—"

Mary hesitated for a moment, "Oh! I just heard you mention antibiotics. I thought maybe it was for a case, or something?"

A brief silence, and Molly and Sherlock both spoke simultaneously, "Oh, no! I'm just—"

"Yes—" interrupted Sherlock impatiently, "yes. A case. Molly is insisting that certain methods are not reliable, while I feel that an experimental approach would be beneficial."

A flash of irritation crossed Molly's gentle features, and her mouth tensed, "I am not keen to take responsibility for your experiments. I think we both know who would end up suffering the consequences." Her voice, as always, was controlled, but her eyes flashed a challenge at him. He glanced at Mary and looked down at Molly again. There was a moment of silence as they faced each other in a combative stance. Mary noted with amusement that while Molly was petite, she seemed more than a match for the tall, daunting man staring her down.

He rolled his eyes scornfully, "I resent your implication." Molly's nose wrinkled as she pursed her lips. Sherlock's face softened. "That's not true," he persisted, almost gentle.

"Isn't it?" Molly asked. She blinked her big brown eyes rapidly for a moment. She'd suddenly lost her fierceness. She looked at the basket full of oatmeal and cereal and back up again.

"No," his voice had fallen into petulance again, his bottom lip was stuck out, but he was looking at her with something—_soft_ in his gaze.

"Right, okay—"Molly seemed flustered. They seemed to have forgotten about Mary, standing there watching the verbal volley. It was better than a tennis match, but it was also a wee bit awkward. She really didn't know either of them _that_ well yet. And to watch them argue in the middle of the grocery store…well, it felt a little bit like spying on a lover's quarrel. But that couldn't be right, could it? Molly may be in love, but John had explained Sherlock's predilections or lack thereof. Married to his work. Briefly distracted by a dominatrix. Standing amid the prepackaged cereals, wearing a green plaid blouse and navy blue trousers, Molly looked about as far from a femme fatale as you could get. Still…Mary gathered her thoughts and spoke up.

"Hey, it's late and honestly, I'm starving, and I know John is hungry. I'll be seeing you around, okay?" Molly and Sherlock turned to her again. "Bye Sherlock," he nodded at Mary, "I'm sure you'll be seeing John tomorrow? Maybe he can lend a hand with whatever you're working on."

And expression ran across Sherlock's face. It was hard to pinpoint it exactly: amusement, rage, disgust, amusement again. "Yes, well…Welcome back, Mary." Molly flashed a small smile and waved.

Mary smiled uncertainly and waved goodbye. "See you, Molly!"

What in the world had that been about? She was pushing her cart to the next aisle when she heard a familiar set of voices rise up again—

"So, with the understanding that I _AM_ responsible, let's put those back—"

"I'm not having this argument again, Sherlock." Molly's voice responded firmly. "We are using them or you don't get to _experiment_ at all."

"OH, come ON!"

Mary was jetlagged and hungry, and it was all too bizarre to ferret out at this point. John was waiting for her at home. Maybe he could shed some light.

* * *

Two months later, on a cold Thursday evening, Mary threw open the door to the new flat she shared with John. He ran to take the warm brown paper bags from her arms as she took off her coat and hat and stomped her feet to get the circulation going again.

"It is FREEZING!" she announced dramatically, "You'd better kiss me quick and say you love me. Not every wife would walk through a night like this to get you your favorite Italian meal." Dropping the bags to the floor, John wrapped his arms around her and gave her a warm kiss.

"It was on your way home from work, your drama queen." He caressed her cheek gently, "Besides, I gave up a night of high adventure with Sherlock Holmes, the one and only resurrected consulting detective."

"Yes, such a sacrifice to sit on your duff in front of the telly instead of running through the ice streets of London, chasing bad guys," retorted Mary as they moved to the kitchen to place bags on the counter. John was bustling about, taking down plates, finding the corkscrew when Mary spoke up with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"John?" Mary asked innocently as she efficiently unpacked the takeaway meals.

"Yes, love," he answered absently, opening the bottle of wine. He was focused on the task.

"Why did I see Sherlock and Molly Hooper holding hands and staring deeply into each other's eyes over a plate of meatballs at Angelo's?" she dropped her little bomb of information. It had the desired effect.

The corkscrew slipped and tumbled to the table with the clatter.

"Wh-what's that?" John sputtered.

"Hmm," said Mary suspiciously, "What _do_ you know about Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper holding hands at Angelo's? It looked like it _could_ be a date, except Molly was wearing a knit cap with a pom-pom, not really date night attire, you know, and Sherlock was sneezing a lot and drinking a mug of tea. There _was_ a candle though, and the hand holding. Romantic-_ish_."

John's mouth dropped open, "Did they see you? Did you say anything to them?"

"No, I mean I was just picking up our order, and they were talking really intently, leaned in, you know? Sherlock was smiling—not smirking. Not sneering. Smiling like he was happy. He may have even grinned. I didn't want to interrupt. There _was_ a case tonight, right?" She removed the foil lid from the food container.

John nodded, as he considered, "He usually eats a big meal after he solves a case. Not too unusual for them to be at Angelo's if Molly was helping him out. Could be happy if the case was a challenge. You sure about the hand holding?"

"Oh, yeah. Sherlock had Molly's hand in his. Their fingers were interlaced—like this, see?" She reached out to link her fingers with John's. "They were in a window seat so I watched them for a little while when I went outside, but it is COLD tonight. I didn't want to linger. Plus, I felt like a pervert." John winced at the word.

"They didn't do anything else interesting though. Molly ate a meatball and Sherlock blew his nose." Mary let go of John's hand and started spooning out the ravioli onto the plates. "Kind of wish I'd ordered the meatballs. They looked good." She faced her husband. "So, talk to me. Sherlock. Molly. Holding hands. Smiling at each other. What's up?"

John looked guilty, "I may know something." He began. How to tell his wife that he'd seen the two do much more than hold hands via video feed? He felt a little dirty.

"Spill! Something IS going on! " Mary wiggled her eyebrows at her husband. "I first suspected it when they argued in the grocery store."

John looked confused a moment, but he rallied and attempted to answer his wife.

"There is—" he began, "The thing is, I don't know exactly what—I mean I do, but not how he really feels abo—" Mary looked at her husband with impatience.

"What is going on!" she cried. "It can't be that complicated, John."

"Have you met Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Uses a gun to answer the doorbell? Fakes his death to save his friends? Yes, it can be." He stopped for a minute, looked to the ceiling to gather his thoughts, and took a deep breath. "So, yeah, there's something going on. I don't know how serious it is, exactly, and Sherlock doesn't know that I know what I know."

Mary stared at him with a grin beginning to take over her face, "So it's secret romance? How positively sick-making! I love it!" She wiggled with excitement.

"So, what do you know?" She leaned in expectantly.

John cleared his throat, "Ah…yes, well. This is the awkward part…"


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note: From wikipedia, "The mongoose emits a high-pitched noise, commonly known as giggling, when it mates. Giggling is also heard during courtship.**__**" **__** I was just looking for info about Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. The things you learn on the internet.**_

Mycroft Holmes leaned back in his plush chair at his desk, hands steepled under his chin. He looked very much like his younger brother at the moment, but he would not appreciate the comparison if it were mentioned to him. Anthea usually didn't bring it up. She had tact. Mycroft was waiting for his brother, in fact, and his co-conspirator, the St. Bart's pathologist. The distinctive, black car that had whisked John Watson away too many times to count had been sent for Miss Hooper and Sherlock. There were few last technical details that needed to be sorted to avoid having Miss Hooper face any charges for the fraudulent death certificate of Sherlock Holmes. To be perfectly honest, Sherlock was not needed in the meeting. However, Mycroft had heard rumors. Mycroft needed more information. He needed to observe the two, out of their natural habitat.

Kisses at crime scenes. Holding hands in restaurants. Gropings in the morgue. And these were all in public places. Heaven only knew what they were getting up to in private. Well, heaven and Mrs. Hudson. There was a soft knock, and Anthea entered with his laptop. She smiled at him as she handed it over.

"You may want to take a look at the car's video feed," she said with a twinkle and turned to leave the room.

"Thank you, my dear," he called after her absently, eyes fixed on the screen. Big brother was watching. She left Mycroft alone with the grainy images of his little brother and Miss Hooper engaged in what could only be called a full on make out session in the back of the government car. Their heads rested on the back of the seat, jaws working as they tasted and explored each other's mouths. Sherlock had Molly's ponytail wrapped tightly around one hand and Molly shamelessly had both of her hands buried in Sherlock's curly mop, controlling his head as she worked her mouth against his.

_Ah, Sherlock. Making up for your lost years, I see. How quaint. And just a bit vulgar._ Mycroft hadn't seen such a display since he'd last been forced to take the Tube, many years ago now, and had the misfortune of sitting across from a pair of teenage lovers who were expressing their affection with no regard to social propriety. Eyes closed, mouths glued together as they embraced passionately, those teenagers of yore had nothing on Sherlock and Molly Hooper who were going at each other with enthusiasm. Indeed, the young woman on the train had had the decency to push away her boyfriend's roving hands when they happened upon more intimate places on her anatomy. Miss Hooper had no such compunction. In fact, as Sherlock slid a stealthy hand from her waist up to cup her breast over the fabric of her soft cardigan, Molly actually pulled away slightly to unbutton the sweater, revealing a lacy blue camisole under which resided a pair of small, but very nice, breasts—the footage was grainy, but Mycroft was a man and an excellent observer. Not content to stop there, Sherlock stared down at Molly, his expression unreadable, blank, but his mouth was hanging open—_panting like a dog_, sneered Mycroft—and slid a hand under the camisole. Molly leaned forward again to nuzzle his neck and captured his mouth again for a long, open mouthed kiss.

The pair shifted until Sherlock was lying supine on the back seat one knee bent and the other leg braced against the floorboard. Molly was draped on top of him, kissing her way down to the top button of his dark blue shirt, which she then unbuttoned to give her lips better access. Sherlock's head was thrown back, eyes closed. His throat worked as he swallowed and breathed heavily. He continued to stroke her hair, tugging lightly, when she suddenly stopped her ministrations to his chest and struggled to sit up. Sherlock opened his eyes in confusion, but Molly pulled him up until he was again sitting properly, shirt gaping, wild-eyed and panting. She smiled and drew her legs up until she was sitting on her knees next to him. Sherlock tried to kiss her, but she stopped him with a finger on his lips. Sherlock (and Mycroft) watched as she slid a hand down to his buckle and leaning over, began to unfasten his trousers. Sherlock's hand entwined itself into her ponytail again and he threw his head back again against the seat-

"Oh dear Lord," muttered Mycroft pressing a button and ending the transmission of the video. He pressed another button on his desk, beckoning his assistant.

She entered his office with a half-smile turning up the corner of her mouth, "yes, Sir?"

Mycroft ran a hand over his lips and chin, his only concession to being a bit, well, _disturbed_ by what he had just seen. "I think there will be a slight traffic delay—contact the driver and have him take the long route here. I think my brother and Miss Hooper need a bit more time to compose themselves before our meeting."

"Yes, sir." Anthea departed with her instructions, and Mycroft leaned back once again, blue eyes gazing into the distance, lost in thought. This was _interesting_. He had thought it would be difficult to deduce his brother's heart. But there it was, right on his sleeve.

* * *

An hour later, Mycroft sat across from his brother and the pathologist. Molly sat primly and politely in her chair, looking over the paperwork Mycroft had handed her to sign. Every button was buttoned. Every hair was in place. Her cheeks were a lovely shade of pink. She looked as fresh and wholesome as a bowl full of apples.

Sherlock looked like he had gone through a wind-tunnel—he was thoroughly debauched. He lolled in his chair, two hectic spots of color standing on his cheeks, and his hair was wild. He didn't seem to know where to rest his eyes since no matter where he looked, he kept coming back to rest his gaze on the small woman beside him. The last time Mycroft had seen him look this way, he'd shortly placed a call to an excellent rehab center in the country.

Molly Hooper was a minx, decided Mycroft watching the woman sign her name to the document with a flourish. Contrary to what one may expect, she did not sign her name with a heart or girlish loops. She had a very strong signature—she was a doctor, after all. And despite her nervous giggle and the awkward shuffling that tended to appear when she was with the Holmes brothers, she performed well under pressure. She was a very cool liar when she needed to be. She'd proven herself more than once during Sherlock's exile from the land of the living. Mycroft was impressed. If for some reason this little ploy to keep her record clean didn't work (but of course it would), he would hire her to work for him.

She really was quite frightening—not unlike a…he started to compare her to a housecat, a pampered pet suddenly turned hunter, going after a rat, but that was too cliché, and not quite apt. Molly Hooper was not an indulged housecat, claws cloaked in velvet paws. Nor an alley cat, neither, spoiling for a battle, marking territory. Both were far more suitable descriptions for someone like Adler. Friendly enough until you stroked her fur the wrong way or until she decided to sink her teeth into you-playing with her prey before she ate it. Aloof. Cruel.

No, Molly was _not_ a cat. She was a—something stirred in Mycroft's memory, a story he loved as a little boy—a mongoose. _"[Sh]e was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in [her] fur and [her] tail, but quite like a weasel in [her] head and [her] habits,"_ Mycroft silently quoted Kipling in his head. Silly. Playful. A furry, friendly little creature scampering about, taken completely for granted, until she spotted a snake. And then she was deadly. Mycroft blinked at the woman sitting before him with shining eyes and pink cheeks and thought he could like her very much. She was not someone to be underestimated.

Molly signed the last page and handed the papers off to Mycroft with a shy smile. He made a mental note to have Anthea take Mummy's diamond ring out of the safe and send it off for cleaning. Yes, his brother would do well to keep up his association with the pathologist. _Rikk-tikki-tck-tck, Miss Hooper. _


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note: This is final chapter of something I thought was going to be a quick little one-shot. I would like to thank all of you who read this rapidly written silliness and reviewed. It was amazing to get your responses and suggestions—you guys are wonderful! I had a lot of fun with this and hope the last chapter doesn't disappoint. And if it does, I'm open to constructive criticism. **_

It had been a stressful week John Watson. His phone rang constantly. Mike Stamford had left a baffling message one night about Sherlock, Eskimos, and geese. Mrs. Hudson kept calling and asking him to please have a word with Sherlock—_the poor boy is so innocent, dear. Molly is a darling and I'm sure she's very patient, but I would think he could use a talk, man to man. _Anthea had waylaid him on his way to get his haircut and brought him to the Diogenes Club, where he was forced to recount to Mycroft every word Sherlock had ever said about or to Molly Hooper. And Lestrade—Lestrade was cracking. For a detective, his lack of cool was distressing.

"Donovan and Anderson know! I don't know how they know, but they keep joking about him and snickering," Lestrade claimed during one panicked call. "I can't have Sherlock down to the Yard. He'll _destroy_ them."

Even his home life was suffering since Mary found out about his unintended voyeurism—he hadn't even _seen _anything that bad really, and it was HE who had tried to put a stop to it. Lestrade was the pervert, if anyone was. Mary had given him an earful before she made him tell everything he saw in exact detail. She'd been randomly shaking head at him in disappointment throughout the week, though she was wearing that black bra he liked a lot more.

Due to the Sherlock gossip at Scotland Yard and Lestrade's refusal to bring Sherlock in until this thing had been settled, it had been quiet for the consulting detective and his blogger for the last few days. John wouldn't say he'd been avoiding Sherlock exactly—there really _hadn't _been any new cases for them to investigate, though Sherlock always had his own research, and it seemed to be occupying him well enough while John hid and Molly worked.

Finally, nearly a week since his confession to Mary, John received an urgent text summoning him to 221B. It turned out that Sherlock needed a propane torch and a packet of sugar, and Mrs. Hudson had already gone out for the day. Feeling as if he were taking the bull by the horns, John purchased Sherlock's requested items and made his way slowly to his old flat, dreading the confrontation. Sherlock would be able to read his guilt the moment he walked in, he knew it. It was in the way he tied his shoes, the buttons on his cuffs, the really obvious and shifty way he couldn't look him in the eye…

So it was some surprise to John when Sherlock didn't even look up when John arrived, merely gestured for the doctor to put the supplies on the table as he continued his research at the microscope. After several tense minutes, at least on John's part, watching silently as Sherlock fiddled with knobs and slides, he spoke up.

"Everybody knows," John said flatly.

Sherlock's eyes remained fixed on the microscope. He did not answer.

"I said, Sherlock, that everybody knows." John spoke more insistently, "It's no use hiding."

Sherlock reached up to adjust a knob, but still did not look at John. "Everybody knows what, John? Honestly, it's far too early to be cryptic, and it really doesn't suit you. It's more annoying than mysterious," he drawled, boredom oozing out of his pores.

John rubbed a hand over his chin, looked to the ceiling for support, and began again. "We all know about you and Molly."

Sherlock's hand paused on the knob of the microscope. His mouth opened ever so slightly before he closed it again. He tucked his chin into his chest but did not raise his head.

"What about Molly and me?" Sherlock busied himself changing the slide, carefully uncaring.

"You're together." Sherlock looked up at him then with widened eyes and a composed blank face, "_Together-together, _to quote Mike Stamford. The secret is out." John grinned, just a little smug. This was going better than he thought. He congratulated himself on speaking first before Sherlock could deduce his prurient behavior and go on the offensive.

"Ah, that. I didn't realize it was a secret." Sherlock turned back to his slides.

"Oh, no you don't. You don't get to pretend that it's not a big deal," protested John. "I can't believe you wouldn't tell us." Sherlock blinked at John, the slides ignored for the moment.

"I didn't realize that not proclaiming my…" he foundered a moment, searching for the word, "affiliation with Molly Hooper was considered bad form. Perhaps I should call Kitty Reilly and arrange an interview. Or would Lestrade like to hold a press conference, instead?"

"Affiliation? Is that what we're calling it? How romantic," John muttered. "Fact: Mike Stamford saw you grab Molly's bum and saw her kiss you at St. Barts."

Sherlock's head reared back at this, but he kept his features calm.

"Fact: Mrs. Hudson has been mysteriously finding girl pants in your wash. Unless you have a lifestyle change to tell us about…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fact: Lestrade and I saw you snogging Molly's face off, and —" John paused, maybe he shouldn't mention that piece of evidence.

Sherlock frowned and leaned into John's face—"When would you see that? Where did you see that?"

John swallowed and stepped back a pace, "no where, nothing—it's just-" Sherlock knit his brows and a storm was brewing in his eyes. God, he'd already had Mary give him hell for two days over that one—he didn't need Sherlock going after him. "Maybe you should learn how to bloody Skype properly, that's all—right?"

Sherlock's pale cheeks were flushed, "What have you seen?"

"Nothing! Nothing really—look, it doesn't matter. What matters is that I want to know why you've kept it a secret. Are you ashamed of her? Because if so, she deserves better than that." Sherlock looked puzzled.

"Ashamed? Ashamed of what? She's a highly respected medical professional, clever and loyal and brave…she saved my life, John. She saved yours." Sherlock rebuked his friend.

"But that's not why, is it? It's not just a pat on the head for doing you a favor?" John was adamant that Sherlock was going to answer the question, but the man seemed genuinely confused.

"I'm not following you, John. Sentiment, I will admit, is not my area, but I'm well aware of what I'm doing. If you recall, I recently had to fake my own death to prevent the people considered my friends, just friends mind you, from being murdered in cold blood. Forgive me if I am hesitant to announce to the world at large that Molly Hooper is my-" he hesitated.

"Girlfriend?" John supplied helpfully. Sherlock's nose wrinkled.

"Lover? Old Lady?" Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Significant other?" Sherlock shook his head in a so-so kind of way. That one wasn't so bad apparently.

"Okay—significant other, or whatever you want to call Molly—the point is, you have a relationship that you haven't even told ME about."

John was angry, but more than that, his feelings were hurt. Not including John in the faked suicide was hard enough to deal with, but now Sherlock was even hiding the little things—though if he were fair, it wasn't such a little thing for Sherlock Holmes to be involved, truly, realistically involved in a day to day relationship with a woman, especially when John considered that his one previous "relationship" consisted of playing weird, obsessive mind games with a woman hired by his enemy. John could understand why he wasn't told, but it still hurt, dammit.

Sherlock looked at John fixedly for a moment, considering his words. John waited.

"I am _so sorry_ that I forgot to mention that I was going steady while we were painting our nails the other night. Perhaps I can tell you all about it during our next spa date," sneered Sherlock.

"Ah, sarcasm. Lovely." John's mouth compressed in a tight line and he shook his head in disbelief. "You really beggar belief, you know that? Knowing that we all care about you so—"

"I don't tell you everything. Why should I tell you everything? Did you tell me when you started dating Mary?" Sherlock burst out in frustration.

"You were DEAD" shouted John. "Or not, as the case may be, but I told you when you came back."

"Did it need to be said, John?" Sherlock appeared distressed, "You saw, you observed, you correctly deduced. Why did I have say anything? Was that a bit _not good_?"

"It's a more than a bit not good, Sherlock." John started to explain patiently. Maybe he'd been too hard on him. "Because it matters. Because it makes a statement—tells us that you are serious. That you do really care and that this isn't some game you are playing with her!" Sherlock shook his head slowly.

The doctor continued, "Look, I know she doesn't quite fit your image, yeah? Adler suited you more that way, I know, dangerous, sexy—"

"You don't think Molly is sexy?" Sherlock broke in suddenly, a challenge in his voice.

John swallowed nervously. _Speaking of danger._

John's memory flashed to the black lace bra, and said a bit too eagerly, "No, yeah! She is…sexy, I mean." A quick picture of Mary's disappointed face came to mind and he tamped those thoughts down quickly.

Sherlock scowled, suspicious, but John soldiered on, "Look, all I'm saying is while it may be just an experiment to you, Molly really loves you and I can't let you go on without you knowing what you're doing to her."

Sherlock's voice was icy, "And what am I doing to Molly, John?"

"I just mean that you can't use her to—to _experiment_ with emotion, Sherlock. She's better than that."

"Dear Lord, what you must think of me, " Sherlock mused aloud. "I am not using Molly for experimentation. If I were inclined to such _experiments_, The Woman would have been a far better partner for that. But I'm not, and I haven't. If I wanted The Woman, I could have had her. I could have her still. She's not dead." He waved his hand dismissively, bored with the idea of it all. Old history. Mystery solved.

"She's not de-. Of course she's not." John turned away for a moment, hand to his mouth. "Does anyone stay dead anymore? But okay, no, not dead."

"But I don't want her." Sherlock tucked his chin in again, suddenly shy, "I want Molly." He was like a little boy confessing his first crush.

"You could have an erotic, wicked woman who would play games with you, lead you on the perilous chases you love so much—and you don't want her why?" John pressed Sherlock—he wanted to know the truth. He couldn't let Sherlock lead Molly on, not after all that she'd done for him, for them all.

Sherlock stared at him coldly, "I think you just answered your own question. Am I such a narcissist that I have to fall in love with someone like myself, with the very worst of me? No mystery there."

John stared a Sherlock for a beat, nodding slowly. Sherlock again busied himself with his microscope. John stilled, replaying Sherlock's words in his head.

"Wait. Did you say _fall in love_? Have you fallen in love with Molly?" John asked suddenly.

Silence.

"Sherlock?" John bent down to catch his friend's eye, "I know you heard me." Sherlock lifted his gaze, as John asked again, "Are you in love with Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock considered the work top for a moment and then looked up again. He stared off into the living room as if the cow skull on the wall might have an answer for him before turning back to John. His mouth opened, and he took a deep breath. "I-," he began, and swallowed, before looking pleadingly at John.

John considered his friend's bashful face, the tremor of the lips. Reflecting back on the last time Sherlock tried to discuss his feelings, the "fly in the ointment," at the inn during the Hound case, John decided not to push. It really wasn't Sherlock's area—though it looked like he was giving it his best effort.

"It's okay, mate. You don't have to say it to me." He stared sternly at Sherlock for a moment, holding his gaze. There was something of the soldier he had been in his tone when he asked, "But have you said it to _her_?"

Sherlock hesitated, before he gave a short, firm nod, his mouth set in a determined line. He swallowed again, hard.

John's face broke out into a grin, "Then that's all that matters, eh?" Sherlock looked down at his work top again, and John reached out to clap him gently on the shoulder. John stood for a moment, rather proud of this machine of a man. The tin man did have a heart.

Sherlock rather nervously busied himself with his slides, and a sudden roguish grin spread across John's face.

"So, how is it?" he leaned over and asked in a conspirator's whisper.

Sherlock straightened up, startled. "How is what?" he asked. His voice was slightly higher pitched than usual.

"You know—how is _it_? How's the sex? Is she good?" John's tongue peeked out and touched his bottom lip and a rakish gleam in his eyes.

Sherlock looked like John had grown an extra head. "You must be mad if you think I would discuss that with you." The imposing consulting detective, the hero of the Reichenbach, was blushing.

"Ah, c'mon. Lady in the morgue, tiger in the bedroom? " He lightly punched Sherlock's rigid shoulder, "Just between us blokes, eh? Was it worth the wait?"

Sherlock's inner conflict furrowed his brow once more—he WAS a showoff after all.

But he was a gentleman first, at least for Molly. "Everything is satisfactory, thank you," he replied primly, bending over his notepad to make a note about…something. He couldn't remember what. He didn't want John to know that, so he bent his head and wrote very carefully, "Buy milk," avoiding John's leer.

And then there were footsteps on the stairs. A quick little knock on the door sounded before it was pushed open slowly. Molly poked her head around the side.

"Knock-Knock!" She held aloft a red biohazard bag, "I brought you a present!" Sherlock stood up suddenly from his stool and shot John a warning glance.

Molly broke into a bright smile when she saw John, "Oh! Hello! I haven't seen you in days. How is Mary?"

John grinned at Molly and glanced back at Sherlock who looked as if he'd sat on a tack.

"Oh, Mary is fine, fine. It's lovely to see you, Molly," he leaned in to give her a peck on the cheek. She gave an impish smile to Sherlock and handed him the bag. "It's Mr. Lassiter's kidney," she said brightly, "I saved it just for you! Some poor student will probably have to find a new research topic, but all for a good cause, I hope?" Sherlock took the bag from her and gave a brief, genuine smile.

"So, what are you boys up to?" she chirped, "Any new murders or sordid betrayals to get to the bottom of?" She unbuttoned her coat.

"Oh, nothing important," he turned to help Molly off with her jacket. "I hear you helped solve that arsenic poisoning from last week? Thanks for filling in for me. You know how it is, I have to give Mary at least one night of undivided attention or she won't let me play with Sherlock anymore." Molly chuckled as John hung up her coat and grabbed his own.

Molly was nodding her head, "Yes, I thought that was an interesting case, though fairly straightforward. Sherlock solved it in no time. He said it was barely a five," she glanced toward the man busily unwrapping his "gift" in the kitchen.

"Four," Sherlock corrected her without looking up.

"Yes, well," Molly continued, "it looked like someone had poisoned his last meal—meatballs and a cannoli." John blinked at this bit of information. Sherlock was ignoring them both as he moved his microscope out of the way, readying the kitchen counter for an impromptu dissection.

"Wait—" John asked, looking from Molly to Sherlock and back again, "didn't you eat at Angelo's after that case was solved?"

"Yes, we did!" laughed Molly, "How did you know?"

"Sherlock is a creature of habit, and that's where we often end up," lied John quickly, "but seriously, you went out for Italian after finding a poisoned cannoli in the stomach of a dead man."

Molly laughed again, "It does sound strange when you put it that way" she hesitated for a moment, but then shrugged her shoulders, " but you'd be surprised how often my meals are influenced by what I find during autopsies—

"Molly," broke in Sherlock with a heavy sigh, "maybe you _shouldn't_ share the fact that cutting up dead people makes you hungry."

"Oh! No, guess not," she flashed an apologetic grin at John, biting her lip, "but gosh, just last week, I was doing the postmortem on a fellow whose last meal was a tikka masala. I can't tell you how much a was longing for a curry the _whole_ day—"

"Molly—" warned Sherlock, he rummaged in the kitchen drawer before pulling out a fork and spearing Mr. Lassiter's kidney from the red bag, transporting it to the specimen dish waiting on the table.

"Right, sorry!" she watched Sherlock's process with a critical eye for a second before turning back to John, "Sorry."

John shook his head, "No, no, quite all right. I am a doctor, and speaking of which, I need to dash. Promised Stamford I'd meet up with him today. I have a bit news I need to share with him," Sherlock did look up at this with narrowed eyes.

John turned to Molly again, "We'll have to have you over—_both_ of you-for dinner next week. We'll have curry! That all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock grunted and focused on his kidney again.

"Well, I'm off. Talk to you soon, Sherlock."

"Mmm." The dark haired man was pulling on a pair of gloves. Molly stood uncertainly—she felt the undercurrent but wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

John was seized with a wicked thought as he leaned in to give Molly a hug goodbye. He held her tightly for a moment, feeling the unmistakable burn of Sherlock's glare on his back. John pressed his face into her hair.

"Don't wear him out too much, eh?" he murmured lecherously into her ear.

Molly stiffened in his arms and he withdrew to see her startled face. "I'm sorry, what?" she stammered, twisting her hands together.

John winked at her and slipped on his jacket. Molly's cheeks flushed and she glanced quickly at Sherlock who was glowering at John over his dissection. His nostrils flared.

"I said, don't keep him up too late—we do have crimes to solve. Ta, Lover-boy!"

He gave another lascivious wink to Sherlock, and as he passed her on his way out, John gave Molly's delightful little backside a playful smack and hurried to close the door behind him. Mary would forgive him. It was too good of an opportunity to pass up.

Behind the closed door, he heard Sherlock positively erupt, "For God's sake!"

John ran down the stairs as fast as could upon hearing the door to 221B wrenched open and the thunder of designer shoes on the landing, following right behind him. John just made it to the first floor when the familiar baritone bellowed furiously after him, "and you wonder why we didn't _**TELL **_anyone!"


End file.
